


give me a little bit of your sunshine, darling

by silberbunt



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Guardians - Freeform, Jisung is a sunshine as ever, M/M, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, angels of light, but afterwards it's just soft, but nevertheless: light trigger warning!, but no worries tho!!, chapter 1 - strangers to friends, chapter 2 - friends to lovers, coffee shops are important, it's a little bit angsty at the beginning, it's more angsty than i planned, kinda bad thoughts in a sense, kinda cromesthesia?, kinda slow burn?, okay i changed my mind midways, so i simply made him to one, the colors actually mean something but you have to find out yourself loL, we all know Minho has the looks of an angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17241575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silberbunt/pseuds/silberbunt
Summary: to make others love themselves you have to love yourself first.or: Minho is an angel of light with a job that clearly doesn't suit him. and Jisung just naturally radiates love.





	1. he found a friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LikeAPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeAPanda/gifts).



> first of all: *taps on the mic and then screams* this is for my twin! ([ @LikeAPanda ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeAPanda))  
> GO and CHECK HER OUT. her stories are simply BreATHtakiNG.  
> thank you for your attention! *drops mic*
> 
> and now:  
> kinda IMPORTANT to understand the story!:
> 
> angels of light are actually able to see voices and sounds in colors. but not all voices and sounds. just the ones angels see as melodic (so it's different for every angel) and the ones from their guardians.
> 
> so,, angels of light live in the clouds. they bring light to the world. but sometimes there is a special one born with a special ability. this one lives like normal humans do. and they have guardians above in the sky that watches them and make sure they're safe and make sure they fulfill their job.

_once in a blue moon, when the thunder meets the sun and the sun the rain, when the world claims to be its end anew, an angel is born under the beady-eyed eyes of the angels of light._

_with an aura so pure and a mind so clear, he's given the privilege to fill the world with self-love._

 

**ǝʌol**

 

all Minho (Minho with the spring green eyes and grey curly hair that reminds him of the dirty snow laying on the side of the roads in winter) wants to do is to lay in bed all day, read his precious books - he takes more care of them than of himself - and not speak with anyone outside his room. and although he could exactly just do that, his guardians above in the clouds would do anything just to shake him out of bed - and therefore out of his safe and consoling comfort zone - and nag him to do what he's appointed to. (he can almost hear them laugh at him right now.)

 

chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices floating through the air, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue and a headache in the back of his head - Minho almost lives a normal life. okay, not really _normal_ , but he's really close to it. and he'd rather be average if he had the choice. (if his head would just - only for a second! - shut up and leave him be, he'd be the happiest angel in the world.)

 

and Minho (Minho with these delicate long fingers that can play you any melody you desire on the piano till your head is all light and your mind lost in the deep tunnels of lust) pretends just to be that - average.

because his mirrors are hidden and his windows are covered. because self-love is hard to find. and how is he supposed to give it to others when he's not even able to grab it between his mountains of clothes - a sad attempt to make him look more delicate to himself - or under his mass of make-up - he's given up on painting beauty under his eyes a long time ago - or behind all the organic food in his refrigerator - at least make the world a better place!, he tends to cry in moments he gives up on himself.

because acceptance is hard to find. and kisses are so rare.

 

so all Minho does at the end is to lay in bed and pretend. and sometimes scream and flail. and in rare moments he's laying with his eyes wide open and watches these purple waves crash over him. and in even rarer moments he stands up and leaves his humble room and passes his couch and sneaks over his carpet, past his refrigerator and through his door he claims bedevilled. and then he crouches under the sky, feeling watched with this heavy weight on his shoulders the guardians call responsibility.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Minho is a creature of habit.

he takes the same way to school and back every day, greets the same people every day and visits the same coffee shop every day in his break. the same old coffee shop with the same old and dusty orange and yellow floating through the air and in front of his eyes, making him relax and push off the tension living in his shoulders and neck.

and he goes up to the counter, ordering the same old tea - coffee makes him squirrelly and he loathes it - and making the same old small talk with the old lady behind the counter, touching her cheeks and nose and leaving a kiss on her forehead to give her the self-love she lost with the death of her beloved one. and with his tea in hand and a shy smile on his lips he turns around and begins to make his way out of this coffee shop.

 

but suddenly piercing and yet comforting red and green - a mix Minho is absolutely not accustomed to in his mediocre colors - burst through the old and dusty orange and yellow and make him jump in confusion - and in shock, but he refuses to admit that - when a boy, so soft and pure he's only known from angels, stumbles into his side, almost making him spill his precious tea.

 

and then lovely pink with a blur of a blue that resembles the sky in the early night crashes into the color mix and a voice so delicate he's only heard from angels singing fills his ears.

and the boy with this precious nose and hair so red it reminds Minho of the sunset he loves to watch bows in front of him, mumbles some incoherent words and stumbles out the door, seemingly in a hurry.

and with the boy going, the colorful sounds fade and back stays the same old and dusty orange and yellow he's so accustomed to.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

with the boy, a warmth and liveliness Minho has never experienced before has gone.

and the colors the boy made just by _crashing_ into him and _mumbling_ Minho has never seen before either. at least not that much in the same time and in the same place.

and therefore the boy (this fascinating redhead with these brown and comforting soft eyes and these adorable little crinkles on his nose because of the possible concentration to avoid spilling his coffee) won't leave his mind.

 

and then Minho is back in his bed, reading "the little prince" and getting lulled into sleep by chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices floating through the air, created by his guardians.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

touching the cheeks and nose and leaving a kiss on the forehead of this middle-aged women (with these beautiful sea blue swimming around her head and hands, caressing her skin) sitting in a booth of the coffee shop Minho visits every day out of habit, he feels watched. but when he turns around, he can only make out the old and dusty yellow and orange floating in the air. and a little bit of red.

 

already turning around, he freezes. no, wait. that red wasn't supposed to be there, mixing with the colors he's so accustomed to. slowly his gaze wanders above the heads of the customers till it fixes on soft brown eyes that seem to start glowing as soon as Minho spots them. and then the sunset boy with cheeks so soft and squishy starts smiling and his eyes form crescents and the red color from before _explodes_ , pushing the yellow and orange aside and making Minho shiver - both with pleasure and fear.

 

and then the angel realises that the redhead is coming his way, footsteps making soft brown shades escape the floor, swirling around the legs of this boy with the adorable almost snub nose.

but the only thing Minho gathers is this piercing and yet comforting green, this time with sprinkles of shyness and colored with uncertainty (Minho almost - but only _almost_ \- feels bad for avoiding this pure boy after noticing the softness of his colors), and this angel-like voice that tried to reach the boy with the grey-silver hair before he vanishes through the door with a weak _Ting-A-Ling!_ of the little bell above the door.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

the next time Minho stands before the coffee shop, ready to enter and grab his precious tea that keeps him awake through endless hours of school, he peeks into the window, making sure that there isn't hovering some unwelcome red or green above the heads of the customers.

leaving a dramatically loud and relieved sigh, he enters the shop and promptly let's his favourite atmosphere sink in.

 

the old lady behind the counter smiles brightly at him, as usual, and the boy with the blond curly locks and his laptop sitting in front of him occupies the same table as every day. the lazy red-black cat with white aspects Minho is so fond of, slumbers on the same old couch by the big window and the old man in the wheelchair is also napping beside the couch (Minho wonders if the man goes home at all, because every time the boy visits the shop, he is on the same spot, probably dreaming of his grandkids tomping around in the park and donuts falling from the sky like rain).

 

but something seems off and Minho can't grab what it could be.

 

because the same old music, probably from a time miss Kim - the old lady behind the counter - was still young and free, buzzes from the speakers in each corner and the same smell, heavy with coffee and chocolate cake, fills the air and leaves Minho hungry for peace.

 

and the angel can't grab what seems off.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Minho kind of misses the piercing and yet comforting green and red. and the lovely pink with a blur of blue all the more.

but his mind refuses to acknowledge that fact, so Minho goes back to laying in bed and pretending. and sometimes screaming and flailing.

and other times he stands up and leaves his humble room and passes his couch and sneaks over his carpet, past his refrigerator and through his door he claims bedevilled. and then he crouches under the sky, feeling watched with this heavy weight on his shoulders the guardians call responsibility.

 

till the day Minho finds his self-love in the form of a human being.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

the next time Minho meets these soft brown eyes that seem to hold a whole universe in it, is almost a month after their first encounter.

the redhead sits in a booth, a book in front of him. his eyes though never leaving Minho who goes to the counter and orders his precious tea, touching the cheeks and nose and leaving a kiss on the forehead of old miss Kim.

and then Minho turns around and let's go of his tea-to-go cup, staring wide-eyed at the redhead in front of him, standing just a few inches apart from Minho, a curious look in those soft brown eyes. (Minho doesn't even acknowledge the puddle forming beneath his feet.)

 

and then this lovely pink with a blur of blue starts swirling around their heads when the sunset boy opens his mouth, apologies spilling from his lips. and then he crouches down, napkins in his hands. and that's the moment Minho snaps out of his trance, acknowledging the current situation, blood surging to his cheeks. (the thing is, Minho isn't even ashamed of him letting go of his cup rather than probably staring at this pure and beautiful boy in front of him for quite some time.)

and before Minho even has the time to react and do _something_ , _anything_ , the sunset boy ordered him a new cup of tea, offering him to take a seat at his table.

 

but piercing and yet comforting green and red don't even leave him a chance to speak up, dragging him to the old and rusty thing, a lonely book laying on it. (Minho is bad at social situations anyway, so he dares to say he's glad that the boy with the baby cheeks is such a bright nature himself.)

and then the boy starts talking, touching Minho's hands that lay on the table during the process, and so much colors are swirling through the room, letting him feel dizzy and drunk with excitement.

 

and then Minho notices the chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices hovering above the boy sitting in front of him, making the grayhead stare in confusion and curiosity.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

_Jisung. Jisung. Jisung. Jisung. Jisung. Jisung._

that seems to be the only thing Minho's brain captured during the hour of the redhead talking and Minho trying not to pass out right here and there because of the colors crashing into him.

and god, his _voice_. the angel wouldn't complain hearing this voice every day, probably lulling him to sleep, and leaving this stutter in his heart because of the lovely pink with a blur of blue that refuses to leave his side and caress his skin.

 

so this night Minho goes to sleep with the chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices floating through the air and trying to tell him something.

 

and the angel dreams of dark blue teardrops falling down from lovely pink clouds hovering over his head and embracing his shaking limbs and letting him feel like home.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

on the next day the sunset boy sits on the exact same old and rusty table, bent forward over a book that seems to have survived some rough and creative times. and the old and dusty yellow and orange is floating around Jisung, making him glow in a homelike way, giving Minho's hands a tremble.

 

and when the little bell above the door jingles with Minho's entry, the redhead looks up, as if he has awaited the angels arrival (he probably has) and there's this smile on his face that lets his eyes shimmer and the piercing and yet comforting green and red around him goes wild.

 

and yet, the smile of the sunny boy seems to have a hole inside that wasn't there before.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

when Jisung laughs, all kinds of purple erupt around the head and the chest and even the arms and fingers of the boy. Minho has never seen purple before.

Minho has seen pink before. soft, calm pink when a little girl started giggling after winning a teddy bear at a fairground booth, dancing around the hectic people. and stinging, ugly pink, dripping out of a young man's mouth telling oh so sweet lies.

and Minho has seen blue. oh so much blue, peeking around corners, floating around noses directed to the sky, hovering above the heads of lonely kids. so much blue; all shades of blue. maybe because humans like the color. maybe because blue seems to calm the angel.

but Minho has never seen purple.

 

so the grayhead is fascinated. fascinated by the sunset boy sitting in front of him, talking and stumbling over his words but seeming to never run out of ideas and never getting tired of explaining his view of the world. and fascinated by his smile and the way his eyes shimmer when he's laughing.

Minho has never seen happiness this close, such a pure and earnest happiness.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Jisung tells Minho about his notebook he seems to always have with him. about how he writes in it when he's at a loss. he tells him that the world sometimes is unbearable beautiful and that he needs to hold that view, so he writes it down.

Jisung writes a lot, about flowers and the sky, about mountains and skyscrapers, about serendipity and raindrops. and about Minho.

about the boy with the silver hair that shimmers when the light is striking it. about the soft green eyes that hold so much sadness, it could rain and the eyes still would look sadder than the abandoned streets.

 

and Jisung could also write about the way Minho hides his soft pink cheeks due to the words of the redhead, a whine leaving his mouth.

the sunset boy chuckles, letting purple stripes escape his rose lips and the angel buries his head even deeper in his hands.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Minho is a creature of habit.

he takes the same way to school and back every day, greets the same people every day and visits the same coffee shop every day in his break. the same old coffee shop with the same old and dusty orange and yellow floating through the air and in front of his eyes, nowadays mixing with piercing and yet comforting green and red, swirling around lovely pink with a blur of blue, sprinkled with all shades of purple.

 

Minho found a friend in all those colors.


	2. he found a beloved

_ deep down, under all the scrolls of every rule and legend the angels of light know under their beady-eyed eyes, sits a scroll, so old and worn out and near to decay only the elders know about. a roll with a rule, a spell, a legend nobody has witnessed before. _

 

_ because only the time the ruler of self-love finds his anchor, his well will never seal. _

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Minho loves autumn.

he loves the colors and the trees and the smell. he loves the melancholic atmosphere and he loves the pumpkins with all those scary and funny faces.

but most of all Minho loves the leaves.

the leaves that seem so alive like a newborn in spring, that seem so content and sated in summer, till they slowly approach their death, becoming more brown and red, saying goodbye to their fresh green, letting go of their strong root that fed them through two seasons and slowly falling to the earth, helping the grass and the asphalt by making the world a last time a little bit more happy and colorful with their beautiful hue of red and yellow and orange and brown.

 

Minho normally remains in his bed, avoiding every possible social interaction at all costs, just relishing the calm, interrupted every now and then by chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices floating through the air.

but in autumn the angel’s bed almost never sees the grayhead, never feels his warmth.

because in autumn Minho is outside, running through parks filled with his favourite colors, with giggling kids flying kites and with this soft breeze telling him it is time to huddle under his blanket.

 

but this year Minho crouches down, his gaze directed to the ground, his hands buried in the dead leaves. because this year the angel feels himself falling apart, approaching death step by step, like the leaves falling from the trees.

Minho knows the time is coming soon.

but he isn’t ready yet, he doesn’t want to leave.

and the angel doesn’t know what to do with this realisation.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Minho wouldn’t consider himself as a good person.

sure, he helps old miss Kim every day, greets the postman whenever they meet and feeds the cats in the backyard of his apartment building. but he wouldn’t consider himself as a good person.

Jisung, though, is the origin of everything good. Jisung with this smile that is so contagious, the laugh that makes everyone happy around him and particularly the warmth the redhead radiates while speaking with people.

yes, Minho considers Jisung as a good person.

 

especially when the sunset boy holds Minho’s hand whenever he’s rambling about how stunning the world is, or when Jisung looks at the angel like he has never seen something more beautiful in his life, or when the redhead is giggling like a maniac with this purple color exploding all around him because he said something dumb and the grayhead punched him for it.

especially in those moments Minho considers Jisung as a good person.

 

(and Minho thinks the sunset boy deserves the world and more.)

 

**ǝʌol**

 

Jisung’s hands are warm. always so warm and so so soft. as soft as the cozy orange floating around their hands whenever they touch. Minho starts loving this cozy orange, sometimes sprinkled with warm hues of yellow, always caressing their skin and so so soft.

 

Minho found a home in those colors.

those which let the angel feel so light and carefree, letting him forget what weight presses on his shoulders.

 

though, every time Minho flees from the bursting colors that make his head spin, stepping into his apartment, his room, the air seems to become thicker, heavier, pressing down on him and suffocating him.

and he wants to scream, but there is no air.

and he wants to cry, but there are no tears.

and he wants to run, but his legs buckle.

and then the angel lays on the floor and he knows he needs to stand up, but just laying there and giving up sounds so much easier.

 

and when the chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices start hovering above his head, floating around his numb limbs and caressing his skin, he thinks that, yes, just laying there and giving up  _ is _ so much easier.

 

but Minho isn’t ready to forget the sunset boy yet, with all those colors the grayhead never experienced before, floating all around him.

 

(and the angel doesn’t want to leave the boy alone because he is worried too. because the black holes in the sunny boy’s smile are getting bigger.)

 

**ǝʌol**

 

everything Minho ever does is sitting in their booth and listening to the squirrel boy talking, the rusty table with the old and worn-out notebook on it between them like a barricade between desolate and fulfilled, like a sad reminder from the earth they call their world.

but everything Minho ever does is listening. (and subtly observing the colors swirling between them, curiosity in the angels eyes being one of the only emotions ever seen in those green holes.)

so; he asks himself, playing with Jisungs fingers and getting lost in those brown eyes that seem to hold all the stars and the moon in it, exploding with galaxies and black holes, never getting tired of glistening under the shady lightning of the coffee shop; why are you not getting tired of me?

 

**ǝʌol**

 

_ he always was so blind. _

 

**ǝʌol**

 

and everything Jisung ever does is sitting in their booth and speaking like his breath’s endless, the rusty table with the old and worn-out notebook on it between them like a barricade between fulfilled and desolate, like a sad reminder from the earth they call their hope.

but everything Jisung ever does is talking. (and subtly letting his gaze wander over the angelic-like features of his opposite, such a warm and so so soft hue living in his eyes.)

so; he asks himself, letting the other play with his fingers, observing the only emotion existent in those sad holes the angel calls his eyes, reminding him of a dead spring with no birds chirping; how many smiles does it take to make you understand?

 

**ǝʌol**

 

so this day Jisung stumbles into the coffee shop, unintentionally bumping every person staying or walking in his way while his hurry of getting into the calm and soft atmosphere as soon as possible. heavy gasps letting escape pastel turquois loops, unseen by the redhead standing in the door of the shop but none the less mixing with the old and dusty yellow and orange floating around the heads of the customers.

Jisung is never late, always waiting in their booth with the rusty table, waiting for the angel to arrive and then being lulled by the sunset boys voice with words washing over him.

but today Jisung is late. and throwing a glance at their booth he sees a grayhead resting with his head on his arms, bangs hanging over closed but twitching eyes, pink lips slightly parted and an adorable crinkle on his nose.

 

because the angel couldn’t sleep last night. because never stilling colors made his vision blurry and his head spin.

so much blue and red and green and purple and pink. so piercing and yet so comforting.

and so like Jisung.

(and those soft brown eyes with flowers and animals and rain and sunshine in them, combined with those orange strays of hair that Minho wants to touch so badly and those squishy cheeks, always shaded with a soft rose, even haunt him in his sleep and the angel is so overstrained by the potpourri of new impressions, pushing the same old and dusty pictures of gray aside.)

 

but that all unbeknownst to the sunset boy taking a seat opposite to the sleeping angel, eyes never leaving the soft features of the slumbering boy and a smile so present on his cheeks tainted with light rose.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

the first time Jisung heard Minho’s voice was exactly one month and two weeks after their first encounter, after two weeks every day meetings and after two weeks every day potpourri of the wildest colors the angel hadn’t even known to exist.

 

sometimes the sunset boy still sees the grayhead in front of him, staring out the window, watching the marionettes walking on the streets with hooded eyes. there was no smile present on those delicate features of his, but Jisung still believed in spotting a mischievous glint in the dull emeralds.

yeah, the redhead sometimes still sees Minho sitting there with his barricade around him.

and the gray color bursting through the curtain of rain around the angel when this angelic voice of his set free for the first time between desolate and fulfilled.

 

_ “we are all walking on peppermint streets, but are still troubled with hollow eyes and dead minds.” _

 

and Jisung hadn’t known then what Minho had meant by that but he would lie when he would claim that this words dripping with gloom hadn’t found a place in his old and worn-out notebook, still sitting between them like an agreed but not welcomed borderline (which the redhead itches to cross like a curious new-born kitten but simultaneously knew that it’ll be the downfall of them both).

and that was the exact second Jisung’s smile found his second hole inside.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

later on Jisung realized what Minho claimed as the peppermint streets.

he realized it with every breath the angel took like air is the most valuable thing he was ever confronted with.

with every small smile the grayhead placed on his face with so much caution like every move of his muscles are precisely considered.

because the boy seems so full of life and light-footed with every step he takes in the corner of your eye but every time you look at him -  _ really _ look at him, at his features, at his movements, in his eyes - you can spot this heavy inertness he carries outward.

and this, just this, is what Minho claimed as the peppermint streets.

because could you believe that something with a name like “peppermint” could be dead inside although it looks so sweet and full of life on the outside?

 

and the sunset boy couldn’t believe that such resigned sadness can be alive in a creature so beautiful and selfless and that happiness and contentment are only reserved for people that aren’t worthy of it. (and Jisung thinks he’s one of those that don’t deserve it.)

 

and Minho just sits there, across from the redhead, and watches, just  _ watches _ , as the smile of the sunny boy crumbles with every new sunrise.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

they never invited each other to their homes.

it's one of their most present unspoken rule that floats between them.

because all they need when they look at each other, soft touches on every inch uncovered, surrounded by old and dusty yellow and orange, is the coffee shop with old miss Kim and the boy with the blond curly locks in front of his laptop in the corner and the lazy red-black cat with white aspects on the old couch by the big window and the old man in the wheelchair napping beside it and the same old music and the same smell, heavy with coffee and chocolate cake, filling the air.

because this place is where they come to when they need to flee from the heavy and grey world outside the window that reflects the funny colors of the shops around.

 

so when Jisung  _ himself _ started to splinter under this great unseen pressure, even when cut off from the outside world in their safe little place, Minho hadn't known any better than to hold the redhead's hand and hope for lifting, not noticing the crack in the brown eyes growing with each touch.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

only half a year after their first encounter, darkness engulfed them both.

 

it actually was a beautiful day.

as Jisung steps through the door of his childhood house, a little cold snowflake finds its place on the tip of his snub nose, though instantly melting because of the warm air caressing the redheads cheeks. a purple childlike giggle escapes his dry lips and curls around the tips of his for once slightly curvy hair, fading in the flimsy fog.

today is the day of the first snow this year and the day where the glimmer in the sunset boy's eyes came back after countless hours of unseizable emptiness.

and as Jisung watches the falling of leaves change to the falling of snowflakes, he thinks about the angel ( _ hopefully _ ) waiting for him in their coffee shop and the glimmer in his eyes turns to a sad one, thoughts haunting him about a time when the grayhead isn't sitting in their booth anymore.

and Jisung can't imagine being without Minho.

 

so the sunset boy makes his way to fresh coffee none the less, arriving as early as ever. and as he steps over the threshold, the little bell above his head giving a weak  _ Ting-A-Ling! _ into the silence, he imagines seeing an old couple sitting in their booth in the corner of his eye, holding each others hands as if they would fade away would they let go. but with a blink of his eye they're gone and everything that remains is thick air and, unseen by the boy with the deep orange hair, old and dusty yellow and orange nuzzling the furniture of the shop.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

later on, Jisung thought, he probably wouldn't have let himself be dragged out of the coffee shop from Minho as, this day, the greyhead arrived with sad eyes dripping with sorrow and trembling hands nearly unable to grab the sunset boy's hand. because being lugged out of their one and only comfort zone out of black despair wasn't a good solution to begin with, no matter how the redhead would look at it.

but this day, the younger decided, was a good day to ignore sanity and reason.

so the redhead follows the angel through masses of people and puddles of melted snow, a soft brown accompanying them as it curls around their feet.

 

they arrive at a park as Minho's steps finally slow down, making them slide into a rather tranquil pace before finally coming to a complete stop.

and then the elder crouches down, falling onto his knees, burying his hands in the dead and wet leaves on the ground. and this scene has something  _ so familiar and desperate _ that Jisung can't grab. so he just watches, hands having a known tremor, eyes hooded with worry.

and though the silence residing between them, the sunset boy understands the soundless words floating around Minho. so he also crouches down, taking his place in front of the angel, placing the palms of his still trembling hands on the others rosy cheeks.

and as the greyhead lifts his eyes, locking with the soft brown ones of his opposite, there is just  _ nothing _ . there is no color and there is no sound and it's like the world around them doesn't exist. and although Jisung is unable to see the colors, he still notices the lack of  _ something _ that's usually there, that's usually letting them feel safe and free.

and Minho's eyes are so weak, the little bit of liveliness completely gone. and then Jisung understands just what he hadn't all these months. because the angel's well seems to be drained of all his energy, disappeared piecemeal with each day.

and then the last crack in the sunny boy's smile leaves place for a black hole and the glimmer in his eyes vanishes like it was never there before.

 

**ǝʌol**

 

and Minho just  _ watches _ . because that's the only thing he was ever good at.

watching.

like the colors bursting from every lively person, making them look  _ so much more beautiful _ .

like the countless cracks in the sunset boy's smile which were replaced bit by bit by black, dull holes.

like the leaves falling from the trees, dying again and again with every new year passing.

like the earth becoming filthier with each self-love that dies in so beautiful and selfless people each day.

_ and Minho is so sick of it. _

 

so, as the trembling hands of the redhead threaten to drop down out of hopelessness, the angel takes them in his, guiding them to the soft cheeks of the sunny boy, stained with tears they both hadn't noticed till now.

and then Minho does what he's become so accustomed to, kissing the redhead's nose and forehead, hoping to at least safe the one that deserves the whole world. but as the greyhead listens to their surroundings there's still  _ nothing _ . the world still seems to stand still, still too weak to let the colors return. and the leaves under their weak bodies are still  _ dead _ .

 

so Minho drops his right hand, his fingers boring into his thigh, tears starting to drip from his dull green eyes.

and then there's an idea sparking in his mind, accompanied with chocolate brown melodies and lemon green voices, usually leaving a bitter taste on his tongue and a headache in the back of his head, but now just seeming to give the angel the last bit of strength available, letting him lean forward and softly pressing his lips on the dry ones of the sunset boy opposite him.

and it's like the time starts to function again, like the world shakes off it's freezing. and  there are so many colors swirling around them, colors Minho has never seen before, painting the trees and the leaves in lively hues, making the people's hearts around them skip a beat and filling the air with such a warmth.

and then the greyhead closes his eyes, letting the feeling of completeness lift him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this got a whole freaking longer than i intended to, heh.  
> [i hope everyone understood that, each time Minho gifted self-love, his well weakened bc -> see chap.2 beginning. bc that's kinda important to understand the plot, lol.]
> 
> and pardon all my grammar and spelling mistakes! it's actually my first story in English vjhdtiigk  
> (and probably (definitely) the longest oneshot i've ever written, so i'm kinda squirrely and insecure to post this? be nice to me, please.)
> 
> uh, however, i wish you a great day/night and we hopefully see us soon?  
> [and maybe hmu on twitter?? [ @DieAvocadoTwins ](https://twitter.com/DieAvocadoTwins) i need some pals. uwu]


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